Wonder to Manhattan
by fxns
Summary: What happens if one day Spot Conlon decides to take a walk through Manhattan and witnesses something he can't help but get involved in? Not Spot/Race, but it could be viewed that way if you choose to read it that way.
1. Chapter 1

**Please review! I love hearing from you guys. I am transferring these from my one shot book to make it it's own story! There's just too many parts I wanna make to just keep it it's own. Enjoy!**

Spot Conlon walked through the streets of Manhattan, feeling as if he was out of his way. Manhattan didn't intimidate him, nor did the Manhattan newsies, but something didn't feel right. There was a chill in the air, his hairs standing up on the back of his neck in anticipation. The streets were bare for the time of day, the sun was only beginning to set, the crimson colors lighting the sigh.

"Oh ho! You think you can fight back, kid?" A voice broke, the sounds of a fight echoing the streets. Spot heard a boy yell in pain, the sound of a body colliding with a wall filling the air. Looking around, Spot tried to find the source, listening intently to the yelling.

"Please, please!" Someone begged, Spot turning to run to the location of the brawl. He stopped at the edge of a back ally, peering in to see what was happening. It was best to try and strategize his move to help, rather than just run in.

He recognized the boy being beat up, it was Race Higgins, one of the Manhattan newsies. "No, please, I," Race began, being cut off by a sharp fist to the stomach. Morris Delancey stepped back, blood coating his hands.

Race's face twisted with pain, sharp gasps escaping his lips. Mutters of words came out of his mouth, his hands pressed to his side. Spot froze where he was, shock settling in to his body. He didn't expect there to be so much blood, he didn't expect Race to be stabbed.

Stabbed.

"I," Race muttered out, collapsing to the ground. A scream in pain erupted from deep in his throat to move out of his lips, agony consuming his body. Spot tried to move, but found his feet didn't want to work.

After a few more agonizing screams, Spot snapped out of his trance. The Delancey brothers had ran the other way, not wanting to be connected to a possible murder. "Race!" Spot yelled, finally running over to the fallen boy. Blood sputtered out of Race's lips, his hands still pressed to his side. "I knew I shouldn'ta come to Manhattan."

Race screamed as Spot put pressure on the wound, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. The Manhattan newsie lost consciousness, his body relaxing. Panicking, Spot kneeled on the bleeding stab wound, using his slippery fingers to unhook his own suspenders. Working as fast as he could, he tied the straps around the wound, wishing and hoping Race didn't wake back up.

"Thank god." Spot muttered, assessing his handiwork. The stab wound in Race's side was still gushing blood, but the flow had slowed down. Taking a few moments to think, Spot breathed. He took a long breath, in and out, feeling the air fill his lungs.

Shaking himself out of it, he picked up Race. There was no way pulling him over his shoulder would work, blood would only pour out of the stab wound faster. So, he picked him up bridal style, holding him close to his body to maintain some extra pressure on the injury. Race was still unconscious, a sheet of sweat covering his body. His curly hair clung to his forehead, the short curls bouncing with each step Spot took.

Spot's eyes glanced around the streets, searching for any sign of a fellow newsie. Going to the cops or the hospital would be useless, although, Race may need a doctor. Finally, Spot spotted a Manhattan newsie, limping his way home, wherever that was.

"Hey! Crutch guy!" Spot yelled, adjusting Race in his arms. The guy had sandy blond hair, he was even shorter than Spot was. The other guy, Crutchie, Spot now remember, limped over fast as he could, his eyes widening.

"What'd ya do ta him?" Crutchie gasped, taking note of all the blood. Race's entire shirt was soaked, one of his arms hanging off the side of his body. Blood covered Spot's hands, his red shirt even darker than usual.

"I did nothin to 'im." Spot defended, tightening his grip on the injured boy in his arms. "He's one 'a you's, right?"

"Yeah, 'is names Race. Follow me." Crutchie nodded, getting the hint that Race needed to go home. Spot sighed with relief, following the somehow smaller boy home to a large building. "Dis is da Lodging House. Set 'im on the couch."

Crutchie opened the front door, several boys appearing. They all yelled and cheered, but silence fell over them when they saw Spot. "Hey, hey! What's the long faces!" Jack cheered, stopping as well once he saw Spot.

"Conlon! You son of a-!" Jack started to scream, pushing his way through his friends. Crutchie held a hand up to stop him, the oldest boy only pausing for him.

"I don't think he did it." Crutchie whispered, glancing back at Spot in the doorway. He was awkwardly holding Race, no one seeming to acknowledge that their friend was severely injured, possibly dying.

"I should get goin, but I think ya guys want dis." Spot butted in, adjusting Race again in his arms. Blood spurted from the stab wound as the suspenders slipped, the other boys jumping into action. Albert took Race from Spot's arms, everyone's shock and confusion fading.

Once Race was inside and on the couch, Spot turned around to leave, but was stopped by Crutchie's hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, for bringin 'im home. We'se'll take care of him."

Spot nodded, turning back around to face the shorter boy. He spit in his hand, extending it. Crutchie returned the favor, his hair bobbing as he nodded. "You'se better."

Spot walked down the streets of New York, making his way back to Brooklyn. His mind was plagued with images of the bloody body of Race, his screams embedded into his brain. Spot's pants slipped as he walked, the missing suspenders really showing.

Race would be okay, hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't know where Spot actually lives so he now has an apartment he shares with other Brooklyn newsies. Together they can all pay rent.**

 **I wanna thank SomedayonBroadway for this request/idea, I hope I delivered to your liking.**

Spot Conlon walked into his Brooklyn apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. A couple of his fellow Brooklyn newsies looked up, their eyes drooping with sleep. It was after dark; the room being lit by a single candle. After the whole ordeal with Race and the Manhattan newsies, Spot had walked around for a while, his shirt still stained with blood.

"Don't come 'ome so late." One of the boys complained, shoving his face back into a pillow.

Spot sighed, walking back into his room. Another boy slept in there on the top of a bunk bed, Spot getting the bottom. Removing his shirt, he winced at how stiff it was, Race's blood caked to the cloth. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the bathroom, bringing a candle with him, and turning on the faucet.

Spot filled a bucket of full of warm, clean water. He grabbed an old rag from under the sink, dipping his hands into the liquid. A sigh escaped his lips as he cleaned his chest and abdomen off, each stroke sending red streaks of blood down his body.

It took him longer than it should have to get completely clean. At least, completely clean by candle light. Who knows what it would be like in the sunlight. Spot dumped the dirty water down the drain, wincing as he saw the discoloration in the once clear liquid.

Returning to his bottom bunk, his chest bare, Spot curled into the blankets. He buried his face into his stiff pillow, the thin blanket shielding his bare skin from the chill of the room. All candles blown out, Spot was left in darkness.

Race was bleeding out on the ally ground, Spot desperately trying to control the bleeding. Screams and wails in pain escaped the boy's lips, his bloody hands clawing at Spot's face. He fought to keep the injured boy still, but somehow seemed to be losing.

"You'se did this! You'se did this!" Race shouted in accusation, moaning in pain as Spot pressed harder on the stab wound. The blood refused to stop flowing, if anything it pooled in his hands even faster.

"Race," Spot began, his voice cut off as Race clawed at the Brooklyn boy's throat. Anger and pain contorted his face, Spot's face presenting panic.

"This is you'se fault! You'se fault!" Race screamed, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. This time, his eyes didn't close, they just remained open. His eyes had rolled back into their normal position, his pupils staring into nothing.

Race's chest no longer rose and fell every few seconds, the air refused to enter his brain. His blue eyes stared at the sky, the sun continuing to set in the distance as if nothing was happening. Spot could no longer feel the other boy's heartbeat on his hands, the blood almost immediately stopping its flow.

His skin was pale as snow, his lips blue as his eyes. His body was going cold, there wasn't anything left moving through it to keep it warm.

Race was dead. Race Higgins was dead.

"It's my fault." Spot sobbed, releasing his hands from the Manhattan newsie's side. He hung his head in sadness, wishing and praying against all hope there was something more he could do. "It's my fault!"

"It's my fault!" Spot yelled, sitting up so fast in bed his head hit the top bunk. His breathing was labored, his whole body was drenched with sweat.

"Pipe down would ya?" Jaxon, his roommate, pounded his fist on the bed above, the wood creaking as he rolled over.

"Yeah." Spot replied, sitting up on his bed. He reached under the bunk, pulling out an old, worn out trunk. Grabbing another red shirt almost identical to the bloody one, Spot pulled it on over his head, tucking it into his loose pants. He made a mental note to save up for a new pair of suspenders, preferably before his pants fell to his ankles.

A sliver of sun shown in the horizon, the building lighting to a bright orange color. The other newsies would wake up soon, so if he wanted to go to Manhattan, he needed to move fast.

It didn't take him as long as he thought to reach Manhattan. Using what clouded memories, he had, driven by guilt, Spot made his way to the Lodging House. It was real early, the bell wouldn't ring for another hour, so there was time to see if his dream was true, if Race was truly dead.

Hand trembling slightly, a trait the nicknamed 'King of Brooklyn' was not used to, Spot knocked on the door. He listened intently for signs of life inside and was greeted by the pounding of footsteps. Jack Kelly swung the door open, the scowl on his face softening just slightly as he saw the state the smaller newsie was in.

"Whaddya want?" Jack asked, breaking the barrier of silence between them. Spot looked into the fellow newsie leader's eyes, his face toughening.

"I wanna see Race." Spot stated, tightening his biceps to bring back some form of toughness to his body. It was clear that he was upset and distressed, but Jack Kelly didn't need to see any weak side of him. No one did.

"Why." Jack stated more than he asked, leaning against the door frame of the lodging house.

"I sorta saved his life yesterday. I wanna see how he's doin'." Spot replied, motioning to the interior of the building. Jack looked him up and down before sighing, moving out of the way. Walking inside, Spot felt a firm hand rest on his shoulder, Jack leaning down to talk to him.

"I'll be watching you'se. If you 'urt 'im so help me God, I will kill you." He threatened, a chill sending its way down Spot's back. He puffed out his chest, running a hand through his hair.

"If I wanted to 'urt 'em, I woulda finished the job yesterday."

The two walked in silence as Jack led him up the stairs. There was a hallway of closed doors, only one open. Beds lined the walls, boys of ages 12-16 all asleep in the bunks. Crutchie was in a chair by one bed, his head resting in his hands, his eyes closed. Race lay on that bed, his chest bare but his abdomen heavily bandaged.

A red spot where the stab wound is stood out against the white of the cloth bandages. Blood was no doubt oozing, but at least it wasn't spurting or gushing like it had been before. Race's body was white as a sheet, a thin layer of sweat covering him.

"Is he?.." Spot whispered, kneeling beside the bed. He wanted to reach out and feel the other boy's forehead, just to know if he had heat left in him.

"Dead? Nah." A voice croaked, startling both Spot and Jack. Race smacked his lips together, slowly rolling his head to the side to face the other two. "Pain? Yeah."

"Hey hey, don't talk, don't talk." Jack insisted, dipping his hand into a bucket of water and pulling out a rag. He rung the cloth out before putting it on Race's forehead, Race's face relaxing as the, no doubt, cool water soothed his potential, and very plausible, fever.

"Look kid, I'se sorry. I shoulda helped." Spot began, eying Jack to see if he could place a comforting hand on Race's shoulder. Jack nodded, but kept his eyes glued on the Brooklyn boy. "It's my fault ya got stabbed."

Race lightly shook his head, a crack of a smile forming on his lips. "Thanks. I'se okay…"

That was all the injured boy could muster before pain lulled him back to sleep, the smile fading from his mouth. Spot sighed, watching Jack's expressions. The oldest newsie looked concerned, angry, and sad all at once. There wasn't a real way to describe it.

"Has he's seen a doctor?" Spot whispered, his eyes pleading with Jack for the right answer. Jack shook his head, Spot's heart dropping.

"Specs is gonna go lookin' today. Soon as da bell rings. We'se need one dat don't cost that much." Jack answered, dipping the rag back in the water and repeating the process. "From what we know's though, if he was gonna die from dis, he woulda already. Or he wouldn't a woken up da few times he did."

Spot nodded his head, watching the curls on Race's head rise and fall each time Jack put the cloth back on his forehead. He watched the newsboy's chest rise and fall each time air filled his lungs. "Let me know about da costs. I wanna pay some."

"We don't needs ya to-"

"I need's to. For myself. I dreamt he d-died out 'dere on da streets. I wanna make sure dat don't happen." Spot insisted, pleading with the older boy. Jack's eyes widened with shock, he just couldn't believe the 'King of Brooklyn' was being so sensitive.

"If ya insist, I can't keep ya from it." Jack sighed, getting up to show Spot out. "But, Spot, he's alright. He should be."

With Jack's words in his head, Spot left the Lodging House, starting his trek back to Brooklyn. He was going to have to sell a lot of papers if he was going to help pay for a doctor. No use in being late for the bell. But, in the end of the day, Race was going to be fine.


End file.
